We move to the official campsite on the outskirts of the metropolis of Stornoway, (or if you want the full Gaelic - Steòrnabhagh), then gravitate to the town centre.
There are fringe events going on somewhere, everywhere?, we stumble into a bar with no name just a redundant length of electrical cable sticking out of the wall above the door, which is actually The Star Inn billed on the program.
The barman claims something might be happening shortly, Stuart makes some quip to the barmaid, who is attractive, about the missing sign but she doesn't see the funny side. The pervading smell of vomit near the bar is a testament to the effectiveness of the smoking ban.
The predicted impromptu session kicks off, a couple of guitarists one with a harmonica the other singing, then more amateur musicians start drifting in, the musicians soon outnumbering the drinkers, the beers keep coming, Isabelle is on double Baileys.
More guitars, an old boy with a concertina and the look of an 'old salt' about his complexion, a fiddle, a bearded tourist with some kind of flute and a wife that sings, then a young guy with an accordion, the line-up is in a constant state of flux.
Isabelle has qualms that I might take up the offer of a guitar despite being unable to play any recognisable tune in anything like its entirety, but as the concertina starts up with another jig and the glasses migrate across the table top in time to the music it's clear that we have become some kind of rhythm section.
We exit before closing time, (there appears to be a very very late licence) it seems we have been in The Star Inn roughly twelve hours...
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3 comments:
The Star Inn is an extremely appropriate name for hosting our Twilight Zone experience of missing hours.
In my state, I hadn't realised that we were sworn at. Hopefully it was meant as a term of endearment.
Oh aye endearment but what did they think of that harmony with the flute player? You said they applauded that.
I was pished.
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